


that we may be made worthy

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Depression, Introspection, Masturbation, Proper Use of a Rosary, Religious Content, Religious Guilt, but it should reflect how i feel about sean spicer, this shouldn't reflect my views on catholicism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 14:31:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11106531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sean prays every day.Sequel tothis





	that we may be made worthy

**Author's Note:**

> ~~I do hate myself for writing this~~

Sean prays every day.

No more sessions where he kneels at the edge of the bed and invokes the Lord’s name and asks him for forgiveness, in between yawns and checking his messages. No more mouthing along the words and going through the motions of the Rosary while he’s really thinking about whatever fresh hell is going to be served up tomorrow.

No. Prayer is for prayer. He’s going to do it right this time. Because he’s certain he’s going to Hell and this is the only way he knows how to cope.

The looks Peter give him alternate between frustration and something else that Sean can’t quite pin down, and he always seems to be on the verge of saying something whenever their eyes meet but he never quite does. Sean suspects he just wants to chew him out on the story of the day and usually flees the scene as quickly as possible.

Hallie has this sympathetic expression on her face that Sean always sees out of the corner of his eye but when he turns his head, it immediately transforms into a steely coolness.

Jim rarely looks at him and when he does, it's with this deep, deep... _disappointment_. It cuts through Sean's skin and pierces into his chest and stops his heart. He's not sure why it does, but it does.

He knows something happened when they were in the Vatican. He knows this because he woke up one morning with a raging headache and his suit still on and that's not something that usually happens.

He knows that whatever happened, it has something to do with Peter Baker, Hallie Jackson, and Jim Acosta because ever since that day, they’ve been acting strangely around him. Not that he really noticed during the trip, since he kept his distance from the press and instead threw at them pieces of bait that maybe, just _maybe_ , could draw their attention away from whatever’s happening at home.

(He doesn’t know how many people have sacrificed their credibility, their integrity, their honor for this administration. They’ve all given so much and for what?)

Nothing seems to work, though, because as soon as Sean steps before the podium, they attack – sharp questions intending to draw blood as they circle around him like sharks in the water, eyeing their prey with bloodthirsty gazes.

He doesn’t answer their questions. He doesn’t know the answers. And even if he did, he wouldn’t answer them because that’s what his job is so what’s the point of asking the President about his position on anything when he’s going to change it three seconds later and then blame Sean for the reaction of the media.

(Sean doesn’t ask anyone what the President’s views are on climate change, on Russia, on anything. He’s afraid to know the answer.)

At some point, he stops hearing the questions and his mouth moves on its own accord, spitting out responses without a thought. The thing is, he doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know –

He doesn’t know what’s worse – the fact that they believe that he doesn’t know, or the fact that they think they’ll get an answer if they keep asking.

Peter’s looks turn murderous after the first press conference back from the foreign trip, after Sean starts talking about the New York Times and fake news, and Jim always looks him in the eye with the intensity of a thousand burning suns.

Sean doesn’t want to deal with this anymore. He just wants to pray.

He can do it aloud now, since he’s condemned himself to the guest bedroom many moons ago. He can’t face Rebecca, can’t face his kids, can’t look them in the eye after all the sins he’s committed and all the lies he’s told. He can’t say anything to them that would make it all better, so he doesn’t say anything at all.

If only he could leave. If only the Navy would send him somewhere far, far away, where he could do some real good. Where he could actually serve his country.

His rosary is in his hands and he’s leaned against the side of his bed. The lights are off, save for the small lamp and the light coming in from outside the window. It’s a quiet night out. He doesn’t know the last time he had a quiet night.

Today is Wednesday – wait, no, Thursday, according to his phone, and wow how has it already past midnight? – so it’s the Five Luminous Mysteries. Except he doesn’t feel like there’s anything luminous today. He’d rather do the Sorrowful Mysteries since those are more attune to the mood.

He clears his throat and makes the sign of the Cross. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” It’s not hard, none of this is hard, he does it every night – he’s all but used to it – and the words flow easily as he fingers each bead in turn, focusing on something that, for once, isn’t about his job.

Sean barely gets through the second decade when he finally gives in and checks his phone. People are still talking about covfefe – _still_. Do they not have anything better to do with their time? Then again, isn’t it better they’re focused on this instead of the actual things this administration is doing? Or, well, lack thereof?

 _What_ have they done? What have they _done_?

He should get back to the Rosary, he really should, but he made the mistake of checking his phone and so now he needs a drink before he can continue. Except he can’t drink while he’s doing this – not until after, at least – so he sets his phone aside and takes a deep breath and recites the Fatima Prayer again.

“O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fire of hell, lead all souls to heaven, especially those who are in most need of Thy mercy.” Fuck if that doesn’t describe him.

He’s saying the words and he knows his mind should be on the Mystery but he can’t help but think about whatever it is he might’ve done that night, back in the Vatican. What did he say? What did he do? Why is Peter so angry (besides the obvious)? Why is Hallie so sympathetic (besides the obvious)?

Huh. Maybe there is no grand conspiracy. Maybe he’s just picking up on signs that he’d picked up a while back and is now just seeing them in a new light. Maybe that’s it.

Except. Jim. He’s disappointed in Sean. And that’s new, because he’s never been disappointed in Sean before – at least, not like that. Usually, he’s just plain incredulous and astonished like everyone else in the press room but alas, he’s disappointed.

And Sean doesn’t know what to think about that.

And for whatever reason, it hurts. He doesn’t like the feeling. He doesn’t like the disapproving glances and the subtle shakes of his head and the despondent sighs that Jim sends his way. They make Sean feel bad and they make Jim look bad.

Actually, they don’t make Jim look bad – nothing makes Jim look bad. The man looks like a Cuban George Clooney and sounds like him too.

 _God, he’s beautiful_ , Sean thinks and he stumbles over a Hail Mary. He clears his throat and tries to clear his mind, tries to think about the next Mystery as he heads into the next decade, but that singular thought has opened the floodgates and now he can’t stop thinking about it.

He is a beautiful man. He’s such a beautiful man. His voice is soft and soothing and his laughter is like music and his smile could light up a city – except none of this has been directed at Sean, not in ages, maybe not ever.

(He can’t really remember his life before this job. He doesn’t like to think about it. No one does.)

Sean does, however, remember a fleeting moment today, while he was heading out of the office and trying to sneak past all the reporters clamored around to get one last quote before they start typing up their articles.

And he saw Jim in a corner, phone against his ear as he stares off into a corner and nods slowly. And he’s not talking to a source, that much is clear, because a slow grin spreads across his face and he shakes his head from side to side and his eyes are soft and fond and now that Sean thinks about it, there’s nothing more he wants than for him to go up to Jim and –

“And lead us not into temptation,” Sean says aloud, “but deliver us from evil. Amen.”

Jim laughing. Jim smiling at him. He’s taller than Sean and he’s older than Sean (well he looks older) and he can pin him against the wall and throw that dazzling look at him and –

“Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee.”

His hair is soft and his lips are soft and he slams Sean against the wall and rips off his clothes. His hands are smooth and rough and calloused and he bites down on the nape of Sean’s neck and it leaves a bloody mark and –

“Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

Sean throws his head back and he moans and Jim’s fingers dig into his side and pierce his flesh to leave tiny marks in his skin that soak into his shirt and –

“Holy Mary, Mother of God –”

He shoves into Sean mercilessly and relentlessly, slamming into him each time with no moment of reprieve and Sean holds onto him for dear life and his head his thrown back and he’s so hard, he’s so fucking hard, he needs it so bad –

“– pray for us sinners now –”

He grabs himself and there’s a wonderful friction that makes him moan again and each kiss comes back streaked with red and tasting of metal and this is fine because this is what he deserves and he doesn’t deserve anything and he’s a terrible person and –

“– and at the hour of death –”

He’s being fucked by Jim Acosta, or maybe Peter Baker, or maybe Wolf Blitzer, or even a personification of the media, or Jared Kushner with that stupid look on his face, or Vladimir Putin, or the President of the United States and his Twitter account, or himself because he’s fucked he’s well and truly fucked –

“Amen.”

When Sean opens his eyes, he’s covered in a cold sweat. His hands are sticky and his rosary is covered in sweat and cum and there’s a cut on his lip where he bit down to keep himself from screaming when he came.

He doesn’t get up, though. He wipes the beads on the hem of his shirt and holds them again and starts reciting Our Father.

He’s got one decade to go.

 

**Author's Note:**

> god everyone in this administration is awful jfc


End file.
